


somewhere in the secret recesses

by sixbeforelunch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixbeforelunch/pseuds/sixbeforelunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Betty and the many facets of passion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere in the secret recesses

Betty knows what they think. She's seen the sad smile on Jane's face when Bruce gives Betty a chaste kiss on the cheek before he leaves. She has to stop herself from rolling her eyes every time Darcy awkwardly changes the subject whenever sex comes up. She couldn't not notice the quickly-repressed look of pity on Pepper's face when Betty took delivery on two full beds, to be placed exactly five feet apart, because even with the treatment that she and Bruce devised, Betty is still vulnerable to the trace gamma radiation that Bruce emits. There are only so many hours of close contact that her body can deal with on a daily basis, and neither of them wants to waste any of those hours sleeping.

They work together almost every day, but they're frequently apart. Bruce sits on his side of the lab, and Betty sits on hers. When they make eyes at each other, Bruce always looks away when Betty does something outrageous, like licks her lips. Betty sleeps in pajamas, buttoned all the way up, and never in the tank tops that almost never see the light of day anymore. They get dressed in the bathroom after their showers, like strangers forced into sharing a space.

Bruce would tell her to find someone else, if she asked, and would freely forgive her--wouldn't even think there was anything to forgive--if she did it without asking. She knows this as well as she knows that she'll never ask, and she'll never go looking.

There is a certain intimacy in being chaste together. This is why they share a bedroom when it would be easier not to. Listening to Bruce sleep, hearing his soft snoring, being close enough to know when he's tossing and turning, sensing when he can't sleep, and knowing that he does the same...they can't share a bed, but they can share the act of sleep.

She's never bothered to explain this to anyone. Every secret, every intimate moment, is theirs and theirs alone. She chooses not to tell for the same reason that she chooses not to share her body with anyone else.

On Saturdays, assuming the end of the world has been successfully postponed for another week, they like to go to the Met. Somehow they always find something that they've never noticed before. They stand side by side and they look at the art and they talk. Sometimes, Bruce puts his arm around her shoulder, and sometimes Betty leans into him. Sometimes he'll even play with her hair, and sometimes she'll go so far as to kiss his neck.

There's a coffee shop not far from there that they like. Bruce gets decaf, because the taste of coffee reminds him of a time when he didn't have to be so careful. Betty always gets three of the vegan pastries. They each have one and then they split the third, fingers brushing as they break it in half. Then they find a spot in the park, and they watch the children play, their own dreams of normalcy appearing and disappearing with the bouncing braids and running feet, like a flickering light on the horizon.

Betty slips her hand into his, and he doesn't tense up against the touch, not anymore. His hand is warm and soft, and you would never guess that rippling beneath the surface is the strength to lift a 747 and hurl it across the tarmac. She settles his hand in her lap, palm up, and traces small circles with her nails. There's the slightest hitch in his breathing, and then Bruce settles into the careful, rhythmic inhale-exhale that she knows oh-so-well.

She runs her thumb nail up his index finger, down his ring finger. Bruce breathes.

All four fingers then, up to the curve of his elbow, where his blue button down shirt is rolled up and she can see the faint bruising from this week's blood draw because Bruce will never, never stop trying to figure out how to control it. She drags her nails across the sensitive skin of his forearm. Her nails are painted coral today. There's no expensive lingerie in her dresser but her nails are always perfectly done for the same reason that Bruce brings coffee and freshly cut fruit to her bed side every morning. They can't give each other everything, but what they can give, they give with their whole heart.

Perfectly rounded coral nails trace across his palm again, and then she flips his hand over, and runs them across the veins and fine bones and muscles. Bruce breathes in, and out, and catches her hand. He traces his thumb back and forth across the inner part of her wrist, then runs his own blunt nails over her palm. Her hand splays out and Bruce massages each finger in turn, his eyes never leaving some far away spot on the other side of the park.

Betty reaches out and turns his face to her. She meets his eyes, deep and brown and raw and open. She can see his control growing ragged. Deep inside of him the creature that cannot tell the difference between desire and desperation, between want and fear, is stirring. She scrapes her nails against the tender skin of his inner forearm, not gently. Bruce jerks away. He loses the rhythm of his breathing, and then catches it again, catching the slippery edge of his control along with it.

"Betty," he said, a little breathless. There's a lot contained in that one word: the warning, the don't-do-that-to-me, the what-if and the might-have-been, the sorrow, the exhaustion, and the fear. But then he's laughing, just a little, and he says her name again, in a whisper. "Betty." And this time it means, I love you, clear as day.

"I love you too," Betty says. Bruce gives her one of his rare, full smiles, not a trace of bitter anger in it, and bright as the sunshine on a cloudless day. He takes her hand and squeezes it, kisses her knuckles, lets it go reluctantly.

They walk home, not touching. Bruce has his hands in his pockets, and Betty keeps hers clasped behind her back.

"Hot date?" Clint asks, when he sees them in the elevator.

Bruce just smiles, his usual smile this time, tight and a little sad, but honest and genuine nevertheless.

And Betty...

Betty knows what they think. They're not entirely wrong, but they're very far from right.


End file.
